He Left Behind A Book
by MultiFandomed4life
Summary: Thea Eaton will never get to see her father again. She will never be able to hug him, or play with him, or laugh with him ever again because he's dead. He left nothing behind, really, but memories, a mourning daughter and wife. Well, and a specific book. One-Shot


**EatonDauntlessCake4610 here! Another one-shot for those lovely fangirls and fanboys!**

I lean against the mattress that I have called my bed for the past few days. I cross my arms over my stomach and stare at the popcorned ceiling. I take in every detail I can, every scratch, groove, bump I can make out. I unfold my arms and run my fingers though the beige colored carpet.

Home. This is my home now.

No. This is my _house _now. This is not yet a home. But once I paint on these tan walls and rebuild my bed stand and make memories here, it will become my home. Once I cry and scream, laugh and cheer, fall and get up, blush and be courageous, it will become my home.

I sit up and walk to my bare bookshelf, a mere three feet away. I run my hand against the recently repaired shelves and daydream what the desolate shelves will look like when they are full of imagination and unlived lives, full of the old and the new, the brave and the weak, the loved and the broken-hearted. I sometimes wonder what my life would be as a book. What my friends' books would be like. My mother and my father's book.

The back of my eyes burn. I feel my face heat and my eyes squint. I feel a small wetness, a small drop of a tear leak down my face. I want to brush it away, to deny the fact that I am crying, but I don't; I accept it, allow it to lead others done my face and drip off my chin. I allow that single tear to cause a tidal wave, a tsunami, a river. I allow myself this human emotion physically but not verbally.

My father. My Dad. He's no longer with us, not anymore. That is why me and my mother moved. We both agreed the memories would be too much. We both agreed that we should be able to enter our kitchen without breaking down, without feeling the ghostly imprint my Dad left behind. We should be able to enter our rooms without crying on every surface, clearing away the thoughts that were stored inside.

I will never see the original dark ocean blue eyes that I inherited. Mine are not the same; mine are streaked with gray like Mom's.

I will never feel his strong arms around me that swung me around every morning even when I claimed I was too old for such things. That made me feel secure when I was scared. Mom's frail arms work, too, but they aren't a blanket like his were.

I will never get to play with his dark brown hair anymore. The hot pink hair bows I had given him when I was smaller will never make an occasional reappearance during breakfast or after he took a shower.

I will never hear his laugh anymore. It was deep and rumbly, and it vibrated in my chest like a bass drum. When I was mad at him, he laughed and I couldn't help but laugh myself. That laugh that my mother says makes- _made _her fall in love him all over again.

_I will never experience that ever again. _I've repeated that phrase over and over in my head for the past few weeks since his death, but this time, instead of just cracking it, it completely destroyed the dam that kept my deepest emotions inside.

I fall to my knees, my head against the bookshelf and cry. Not like I was with my silent tears, but this time with my lips curling over my teeth, the noises and grunts coming from my mouth sounding like a dying beast's. I curl my fingers into my dark brown-streaked blond hair and pull on it.

He can never love me again because he's dead. He can never hug be again because he's dead. He can never play with me again because he's dead. He can never do anything with me because

He

Is

Dead.

* * *

><p>I cry and I cry and I cry. At some point, Mom came in here and saw me. She hugged me.<p>

"I'm sorry." She repeated it over and over. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She continues to hug me, continues to repeat the words. Her voice has become raspy and dry, no longer sounding confident any more. She stops talking and takes my face in her hands.

"Look at me." I don't comply. "Look at me," she says again. I still don't. I expect her to scream in out, to yell at me, to leave my room. I expect her to say she has the authority and I'm to listen to what she says. But she doesn't.

"Thea. Thea, please, look at me. Please. I can't be rejected by the only thing I have left." Her voice sounds as weak as I feel. Like she's the one who lost her loving father. But she lost more than that; she lost the love of her life.

I face her, my tears still steadily flowing from my eyes.

Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot. I see tears trailing down her face, her lip crumpled. Her beautiful golden blonde hair is in tangles from her hands.

"Thea. I'm sorry. I couldn't do anything about it. If I could give up my life for his, I would. But that's not how the world works. I know that you're feeling that you'll never get to feel his love for you again, but you will. I'm scared that I won't feel his love, either, but we will. I'm not going to say that it will all get better because I can't garentee that. I won't say that one day you'll be happy because I don't know. But I can garentee that we will live. We'll survive this tragedy. Okay? We'll make it. I know that I will never replace your dad, I will never find anyone to fill in his place. But I can try as hard as I can, even if it kills me. I love you, Thea, and so does he, even if he himself isn't here as proof."

My body shakes and even more tears -if possible- flow down my face. I hug her back with all my might as if she's a lifeline.

"Mom." My voice cracks. "Mom. I... I love you. I love you, too. I want you to be happy."

I say it over and over again like it's my montra. "I want you to be happy. I want you to be happy. I want you to be happy."

We sit there in our tears and silence and listen to the wind rustling. My mom gets up and picks me up with her.

"Come on, Thea. I have something I want to give to you." She drags me by my hand before stopping at my door. She stares out into the hallway, at the blank wall two feet away from her face. "That is, if you want to see it. You don't have to if you don't think your ready."

I nod my head.

"Is it Dad's?" I ask her. She nods her head slowly, still staring at the wall. She takes my hand again and leads my to our basement. This is where most of our stuff is still in boxes since we haven't unpacked yet.

She takes me down the stairs and flicks the light switch. She takes me through the maze of boxes and stops at three large ones, all of them as wide as both of us next to each other and up to my waist. They're marked with 'Tobias's." Dad's name.

"Help me lift these up to the guest bedroom," she says. I take one side and she takes the other. We lift on the count of three. The box is heavy but with both of us, we manage to carry it up the stairs and the correct bedroom. We do this with the other boxes and it takes us about ten minutes. It would have taken Dad five.

When we set the last one down, my mom goes back to the basement and comes up with red, black, and dark purple wooden planks and a drill. She sets them on a box and says,"Welcome to the Eaton Library." She spreads her arms over her head and smiles a small one with a sniffle.

At first I'm confused, but then Mom opens one of the boxes and I peer in.

Books. Tons and tons of books.

"They were your dad's. He was going to give them for your birthday in a couple weeks but I think he would want me to give them to you now."

I inspect the books. They're old. Anne of Green Gable, The Giver, Jane Eyre. She pulls one out and holds it to her chest. "This one was his favorite. Its specifically for you, he said. He thought you would love it, too." She holds the book out and I take it into my hands. The Tale of Despereaux. There's a small gray mouse on the cover with large ears. On his waist, he has red thread tied to a sowing needle that's twice as long as him. I open the book. There, on the first page that's blank, is my dad's handwriting, crooked and simple.

_Thea,_

_Happy birthday, my beautiful girl! I can't believe you're already thirteen. I'm getting old, aren't I? Well, my lucky-to-still-be-young daughter, here is my favorite book. Read it. No questions will be ask nor answered until you finish it, okay? I love you! Now, _READ ON.

_Your loving dad,_

_Tobias Eaton_

I let one little tear slip. I don't wipe it away. This one is of joy. I continue to flip the pages until I reach the first one.

**_The world is dark, and light is precious._**

**_Come closer, dear reader._**

**_You must trust me._**

**_I am telling you a story._**


End file.
